The Carousel Painter Page 17

  His brows furrowed over eyes that shone with concern. “You are troubled much?”

  I picked at a blade of grass and finally pulled it from the ground. “I suppose I’m more troubled than ever before in my life.”

  An uncomfortable silence spread between us. He likely believed I was referring to problems at the factory. No doubt he wanted to tell me I could relieve my troubles by going to work somewhere else. Little did he know that my problem was much more serious than the muttered insults I endured at work. But I couldn’t share my secret with Josef— not now.

  Mr. Lundgren called out for us to join them, and I jumped to my feet. For now, I could withhold my secret. But what if the police detective came to the factory and wanted to question Josef? What would he think of me when he learned I was suspected of being a thief?

  CHAPTER

  16

  On Monday morning I received an introduction to the new painter, Gunter Schmitt. All concern over Gunter’s willingness to work alongside a woman evaporated the moment I met him. A shock of sandy hair fell over one eye, and he possessed an air of sophistication. I wasn’t certain if it was the hair over his eye or his self-assured manner. Perhaps a little of each. Instead of hesitating to shake the hand of a woman, he reached out and grasped my hand in a friendly manner. When he didn’t drop his hold, I noticed Josef nudge him in the side. He grinned and released my hand with an effusive apology.

  After Josef had given Gunter a tour of the factory, the two of them returned to the paint shop. Josef motioned to the rack of elegantly carved horses awaiting the painter’s brush that would bring them to life. Gunter inspected some of the horses that had been partially painted and were ready for their next application.

  Stooping around one of the horses’ heads, he signaled and complimented me on my work. Once again, Josef nudged him, but Gunter laughed and finally chose one of the horses that I had begun. A giant white jumper I had planned to embellish with a pink and white blanket. I had decided upon pink as the primary color for the carved roses, with leaves of deep green and a garland of pale blue highlighted with gold. Pink would make it the perfect choice for any little girl who wanted to ride a carousel horse. I doubted Gunter would use such a color scheme.

  Mr. Tobarth set him up to work on his other side. I supposed it was to keep one eye on me and the other on Gunter. I strained forward when he began to prepare his paints. I didn’t see any pastel shades in his mix.

  He ran an appreciative hand down the horse’s body. “A fine paint job,” he said.

  Mr. Tobarth bobbed his head. “That’s Carrie—Miss Brewer’s work.”

  “Brouwer,” I whispered. Why can’t he remember my name? Sometimes I thought he knew how much it annoyed me and did it on purpose.

  “I mean, that’s Miss Brouwer’s painting—and Josef’s carving,” he added.

  Gunter arched his back and rested his elbows across his thighs. “I think you’ll like what I can add to the horse.”

  Though I had already pictured the completed horse in my mind, I nodded. No matter how good his work, it wouldn’t be what I had planned. I knew exactly what that horse needed to make it beautiful. Deciding it would be best if I didn’t watch, I concentrated on the flowing blanket draped across my horse’s back. Still, I couldn’t help but occasionally sneak a glance down the line. He’d started with the roses; he was painting them a pale red—not the shade I would have picked, but at least he hadn’t chosen to paint them yellow or white.

  When the bell sounded for lunch, I leaned toward Mr. Tobarth. “I have a few church questions for you.”

  He arched his brows. “Church questions or questions about the Bible?” he asked as we headed outdoors.

  “About the Bible, I guess, but more about God not taking care of the people who believe in Him.”

  “Thought we covered that in our earlier conversation.”

  I nodded. “We did. But in the sermon on Sunday, the preacher talked about Stephen and . . .”

  He touched my arm. “I was there—don’t need a repeat.”

  “I don’t understand God’s letting Stephen die. If someone accuses you of something and it’s a lie, why should you be punished?”

  His forehead wrinkled for a moment. “Are you talkin’ about Stephen, or is this somethin’ personal?”

  I didn’t want to reveal my encounter with the detective, but I didn’t want to lie, either. “Mostly about Stephen. If you can make me understand about him, then it would help me understand when things happen in my life.”

  He didn’t look completely convinced. “It’s true God allowed Stephen to die, but He rewarded Stephen even before he died. Didn’t you hear when the preacher said Stephen saw the heavens open up and Jesus was standing at the right hand of God?”

  “Um-hum,” I said, still waiting for more. I didn’t doubt that seeing Jesus at the right hand of God was a wonderful thing, but Stephen still died. I couldn’t be certain, but Mr. Tobarth’s eyes looked as if they were filled with pity, because I still didn’t understand.

  “Here’s the thing of it, Carrie. After Stephen saw heaven, there ain’t no way he’d want to stay here on earth. Not after seein’ what was waitin’ for him up there.”

  “Oh,” I whispered. “I see.” None of what he’d said helped my situation. I removed the ham sandwich from my pail and took a bite.

  I was still chewing the overcooked piece of ham when Mr. Tobarth said, “Lots of the saints suffered ’cause of their beliefs. Paul was thrown in jail and suffered somethin’ fierce to defend his faith.”

  If Paul had gone to jail and suffered, it didn’t look like I could expect God to save me from a jail cell. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention, and the bite of sandwich stuck in my throat like a wad of cotton. I gulped water from my cup to help push it down. After several swallows, it landed in my stomach like a heavy weight.

  Mr. Tobarth nodded toward the women who had taken their position across the street. “From the looks of those women, I’d say they’re mighty unhappy to see you out here. How long has this been goin’ on?”

  I shrugged. “Not too long. I told them I wasn’t looking for a husband, but I guess they don’t believe me. They want me to quit.”

  “I could try goin’ over and talkin’ to them, if you think that might help.”

  “I doubt it would do any good.” I stood, gathered my lunch pail, and headed inside. I considered waving to the women but decided such behavior, even if intended as a friendly gesture, would ignite further anger.

  At the end of the day, I found myself walking toward the door with Gunter, and he asked if I was in need of an escort home.

  “An escort is right here for her,” Josef said, stepping out of his office. “We live in the same boardinghouse, so is not necessary for you to worry about Carrie’s safety.”

  “Carrie? I thought she was Miss Brouwer.” Gunter slapped Josef on the shoulder. “Then I will walk with you and Carrie. Your boardinghouse, it is on the way to where I live.”

  Josef grunted. He didn’t appear pleased by Gunter’s decision and walked at my side, forcing Gunter to follow behind. A few weeks ago, his behavior might have angered me, but today I found his desire to protect me reassuring.

  After I prepared for bed, I pulled out my mother’s Bible and settled in the chair. I thumbed through the pages until I came to the book of Acts. That’s where Mr. Tobarth told me I could begin to read about Paul and his suffering. The more I read, the more I marveled at the change in Paul and his willingness to suffer for his faith. Like Jesus, he forgave those who persecuted him. I wasn’t sure I was up to such a task, but I prayed and asked God to give me the strength and proper words if the police should believe I was guilty of stealing Mrs. Galloway’s necklace. I also prayed He would give me greater understanding of the Bible, because I didn’t know how anyone could live a Christian life—at least not all the time. I fell asleep reminding myself to ask Mr. Tobarth how people accomplished such a feat.

  The following
day at lunchtime, Mr. Tobarth accompanied me outside. I was pleased the women weren’t across the street today. I hadn’t yet figured out their schedule. One day they were out in force, and the next none of them appeared.

  “I read the book of Acts,” I said.

  “What did you think?” He removed an apple from his lunch pail and rubbed it on his pant leg. I didn’t think his pants were all that clean, but the apple had a nice shine when he finished. He crunched his teeth into the fleshy fruit and chewed with gusto.

  “It was . . .” I hesitated, uncertain how to express myself. “It made me think quite a bit.”

  Mr. Tobarth took another bite of his apple and waited.

  “Paul was a very good man, and he suffered a lot, but after reading some of what he says, I’ve decided it’s much harder to live a Christian life than I thought.”

  “Now, that’s a fact. Becoming a Christian—that’s the simple part. We can reach out and take the gift of eternal life that we’ve been offered, but tryin’ to live right and follow the example we’ve been given—that’s not so easy. Once we become believers, we need to offer our best—can’t do no more than that. You keep readin’ what else Paul has to say.” He continued to gnaw on the apple and then tossed the core into the trash.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more of what Paul had to say, especially if it was about suffering. But I did agree to continue reading. Mr. Tobarth said Paul had a lot of good instruction for Christians. I hadn’t been looking for more rules to follow—I wasn’t even sure I could do justice to the ones I’d read so far.

  He stood up, his signal it was time to return to work. “Ain’t none of us perfect, but bein’ a Christian means you always try to do the right thing, no matter what. An’ ask God to help you.”

  That sounded like quite an order, but if my life continued on its current path, I’d have plenty of opportunity to put some of the teachings into practice. Or at least I could try.

  I did my best to sort out my thoughts throughout the afternoon, but mostly I wanted to tell Gunter he wasn’t using the proper colors that I’d envisioned for the white horse. While I had come to accept the red he’d decided upon for the roses, I was having difficulty with his remaining choices. He’d used bright primary colors of yellow and blue for the blanket and garland. And he’d used emerald green for the leaves and stems instead of forest green. To make matters worse, he hadn’t properly shaded the leaves. They would have looked much better with hints of umber and dark brown. What was he thinking?

  By day’s end, it had taken all the restraint I could muster to hold my tongue. As I walked by the rack of carousel horses, I took an extra moment to study the proud white jumper and lamented what could have been. Fortunately, Gunter had walked toward the front door a few minutes earlier. Otherwise, I fear my discipline would have vanished.

  “He has a lot of talent with a paintbrush, don’t he?”

  I spun around and nearly fell into the rack. Mr. Tobarth was eyeing Gunter’s horse with obvious admiration. What should I say? Both Mr. Tobarth and Josef thought Gunter an excellent painter. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “His techniques and choice of colors are different from mine, but I’m certain he will prove an excellent addition to the factory.”

  “Yep. I’m sure glad to have his help.”

  Not wanting to discuss Gunter or his painting any further, I took extra time cleaning my brushes. Mr. Tobarth finally removed his work apron and retrieved his hat. He waved in my direction, bid me goodnight, and strode toward the door. Once he’d departed, I moved with greater speed and soon was on my way home.

  I’d gone only a short distance when I heard Josef call my name. I turned to see him racing toward me. Moments later, he came to a panting halt beside me. “I thought you had walked home with Gunter.”

  Why he thought I’d be walking with Gunter, I didn’t know. “He left about fifteen minutes ago. I needed to clean my brushes.”

  He settled into an easy stride, yet he wrung his hands together like a frightened schoolboy. After several stammering attempts, he tried again. “Has . . . um . . . do you . . . are you . . . the community picnic, did Gunter ask you?”

  His question confused me. It took a moment for me to unscramble what he’d said. “Oh!” I said when I finally understood. “You want to know if Gunter asked me to attend the picnic on Sunday.” I shook my head. “No, he hasn’t.” I didn’t add that I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation.

  Josef’s shoulders relaxed as he exhaled a low whistle from between his pursed lips. “Then would you be my, could I be your— To the picnic, would you go with me?”

  I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I, too, exhaled a whoosh of air. Mrs. Wilson had mentioned the community picnic shortly after I’d moved into the boardinghouse, but I hadn’t paid much attention. If she was alone this evening, I’d gather the details. “I’d be pleased to attend with you.”

  “Ja? You will?”

  “Of course.” Why did he seem so surprised? I’d already told him I wasn’t attending with Gunter. Maybe he thought I had plans to go to the Galloways’ for the weekend. Or did he think I was planning to attend with Mr. Tobarth? The idea made me giggle.

  His brows dipped and his smile disappeared. “What is funny?” he asked.

  It was apparent he thought I was laughing at him. “I was thinking about something else. About Mr. Tobarth,” I quickly added.

  “What about Mr. Tobarth is funny?”

  “I was just thinking about him attending the picnic.” Before he could say anything, I continued. “He thinks Gunter’s choices of paints for your giant jumper are excellent. Have you seen it?”

  Tiny lines deepened across his forehead. “The horse?”

  I sighed. “Yes. Have you seen it since he began working on it?”

  “Nein.” His brow remained furrowed, and he shook his head. “A good job, he will do. Gunter is a fine craftsman, very skilled.”

  “But the colors are wrong,” I said. “They should be what I decided.”

  He stopped midstep and tipped his head to one side. “You became the boss when I wasn’t looking?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t mean to be forward, but I had an exceptional palette planned for that horse. He has used bold, bright colors.”

  Josef seemed to be studying me as we continued toward home. “And what did you want?”

  I immediately detailed my plans for him. He listened and nodded while I told him the colors and shading I would have preferred.

  “Pretty, those colors would have been.” My heart swelled with pride until he said, “But pretty Gunter’s colors are, too. Ja?”

  Mumbling my agreement, I did my best to hide my disappointment. I had hoped to win him to my side, but removing Gunter’s bright red roses or yellow garland would be out of the question. I don’t know what I had hoped to accomplish. Maybe Mr. Tobarth was right about me and my pride. Maybe I just wanted Josef to agree with me in order to boost my own ego.

  “For you, I will carve another big jumper that only you will paint, ja?”

  “Or maybe you will carve one of the animals I sketched, and I can paint it?” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I’d managed to dim the sparkle I’d seen in his eyes only moments ago. Why couldn’t I be content with what he had offered? “But another jumper would be good, too,” I said, grasping his arm.

  “Ja. We will see.”

  From the bow of his head and the dejected tone, I knew my words had stung. His carefree mood had disappeared as quickly as sunshine on a cloudy day. My stomach did a quick flip-flop. “Tell me about the picnic,” I urged, giving his arm a slight squeeze.

  He did his best to sound jovial while he described the affair, but when we climbed the stairs and entered the boardinghouse, his earlier lightheartedness had not returned, and my stomach hadn’t settled, either. I hoped he would forgive me, but I wasn’t certain if an apology would make things better or worse—so I decided against b
roaching the subject further. Maybe I would apologize tomorrow, or maybe at the picnic, or maybe not at all.

  Mrs. Wilson explained that the picnic was an annual affair at Collinsford Park and had been going on for the last fifteen years or so. Most folks in the community would attend. The festivities included games, a picnic, and boat rides for those who cared to spend a few extra coins and enjoy a ride on the lake.

  The older woman had been pleased to share information about the picnic, but when I mentioned that I would be preparing the picnic lunch for Josef and me, I sensed my hastily spoken words had hurt her. “I only wanted to save you the extra work,” I said, hoping she would understand. “I’d be glad to prepare food for you and Mr. Lundgren, too.”

  My explanation hadn’t been entirely truthful, but I couldn’t tell her I preferred my own cooking. That would be downright cruel. When I’d weighed the effects of being completely honest against stretching the truth, stretching had won. I hoped Jesus would understand, because I didn’t see any way to handle the situation with complete honesty. Each evening I’d continued to read more of Paul’s letters to the churches, and I was becoming more and more convinced I couldn’t do all those things he spoke about that made people good Christians.

  Mrs. Wilson patted my shoulder. “We’ll work together on our lunches. That way we can learn from each other. What do you think?”

  Relief flooded over me, and I bobbed my head in agreement. “Yes, that would be great fun.” Her warm smile was enough to convince me that all had been forgiven.

  On Saturday evening Mrs. Wilson and I worked together on our preparations for the picnic that would take place after church the next day. By the time we completed the task, I was more than ready for bed. I did my best to read from the Bible, but my eyes wouldn’t stay open long enough for me to complete more than a verse or two before they drooped shut. I finally closed the Bible, uttered a brief prayer, and crawled between the sheets.

  The following morning I was pleased when the preacher said he was going to talk about joy. However, when he used Paul and Silas as examples, my personal joy took a downward plunge. I’d read about the two of them and how they’d prayed and sung hymns in jail. I doubted whether God would send an earthquake to shake down the walls of my jail cell. And if He did, I doubted I’d be like Paul and Silas and just sit there. I think I’d be so happy to have the walls fall in that I’d run as if the devil were hot on my heels.